


in the quiet of the woods

by jotunblood



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Guilt, Paranoia, animal death isn't actually described in the fic though, mentions of animal death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 13:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5541701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jotunblood/pseuds/jotunblood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curufin could remember, perhaps with too cruel a clarity, the first time he doubted his father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the quiet of the woods

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for cygnete as a secret santa exchange over on tumblr. Cross posting here for easier reading ^.^
> 
> Also, to clarify: though there are mentions of animal death, there is no actual descriptions of violence towards animals. It's implied, but nothing detailed happens, so no worries there if that's something that grosses you out!

Curufin could remember, perhaps with too cruel a clarity, the first time he doubted his father.

“Through the hind,” Fëanor breathed, slivers of air between his lips and Curufin’s ear. His proud nose tickled the tip, young and not as elegantly tapered as Fëanor’s own. “Sink your arrow into the muscle, just above the bend of the knee.” 

The deer they’d been tracking since dawn didn’t stir. Its snout rummaged through grass and leaves, the crunch of foliage more than loud enough to cover Fëanor’s smoky whisper. Curufin was tempted to shout, to counteract the stealth his father bled and left pooling around them both like low tide.

This wasn’t hunting; he was sure of it now. Though earlier that morning it hadn’t been so obvious. 

Fëanor had woken him gently, quiver in hand, his smile warm in the creeping light of dawn. It was his pleasure, all knew, to wake early in the warmer weeks and disappear between the trees. Often the trips were bloodless, meant for gathering wood and stone and water. Occasionally, however, he came back through the tree trunks with the limp bodies of animals over his shoulders. 

It was a habit few of their kin approved of, but one he-- true to form-- indulged in anyway.

Before the births of his sons, Fëanor only brought down handfuls of birds or burrowing rodents at a time. His wife was polite enough when he returned with the creatures, but had little appetite for them, and he himself could only eat so much. Now, with his home full of young bellies, the man was never seen returning with anything smaller than a deer.

The growth of the hunts was a testament to virility, a map of warm flowing blood he’d passed to a litter of ever-hungry boys. Some were closer to their mother in face and temperament, but they were each their father’s son in hunger. When they were too young to follow him, they’d waited eagerly by the trees for him to return, small fingers itching to pet the fur of some cooling beast; as they aged, they awaited just as eagerly for Fëanor to drag them too early from their beds, tell them this time it was their turn-- _no, not Maedhros, not Caranthir, but yours_ \-- to trip after him through the woods. 

It was something they could share. Something quiet that not even Fëanor’s most heated passing mood could touch. Curufin himself had followed his father on dozens of occasions, and each had started as peacefully as this day. And yet--

“A fatal shot is just as clear,” Curufin said, eyes locked on the deer’s profile, the slow blinking glass of its eye. 

And yet, his father had never instructed him thus. Never called for anything short of death. Not when they might simply move for a better angle, and certainly not when Curufin could pierce it through the eye from where they then stood. And he could have. His arrows had stuck sure in stronger bone and from greater distances before. Cracking the wispy socket would be no task.

“Clearer, even.”

Fëanor’s shrug rolled through Curufin’s own back. His father was close, taking in the view over his son’s shoulder as he’d always done. When he and his brothers were younger, the presence had been a reassurance. It helped hoist their bows, steadied shaking arms not yet accustomed to the draw weight. The consistence of his heat had been a blessing when they were learning.

These days it was often too heavy, unforgivably stubborn, and Curufin wished sometimes-- in this and all things-- that his father knew when to back away.

“Striking the hind,” Curufin pressed, “requires that we move.”

“Mere steps.” Fëanor’s words were taunting, his soundless laugh speckling Curufin’s jaw like rain. “Surely you aren’t so lumbering that the move would scare it off.”

When Curufin was younger, Fëanor had made him practice stalking across a rocky beach. The woods were full of snapping twigs and leaves that crunched like firecrackers, he said; if Curufin wanted to accompany him there, then his son would have to learn the weightless walk of birds. They went nearly every afternoon, Fëanor slinking silently over the shifting surface in demonstration, tutting indulgently at Curufin’s clumsy attempts to match him. It had taken weeks to school the young boy’s knocking knees, to stifle the twitch of his toes. But Fëanor had been patient, unrelentingly attentive, and soon not even the loosest pebble ground under Curufin’s heels. 

Lumbering: had he been younger, Curufin would have rolled his eyes at the word. His father had choked the clumsiness from his son himself; he knew well the measure of his _lumbering_.

“I am not,” Curufin corrected. “But neither am I foolish. Repositioning wastes time. Should it move in the intervening time, it could be hours before we gain such a clear advantage again.”

Curufin dared a small turn of the head to judge his father’s reaction to that. Fëanor’s mouth retained its playful curve, but the mirth didn’t touch his eyes. It was an expression the elder often reserved for appraising raw materials at market; easy, yet clinical enough to mask his true opinions. Curufin couldn’t help but feel like workable rock beneath such a gaze, or quell the low boiling nerves it raised. 

“If your arrow sinks deep enough into the muscle, you needn’t worry about it moving.” Fëanor’s lips parted slightly, baring the dull bright tip of an eyetooth. “So long as your first shot wounds the target properly, the kill can come at your leisure.”

The plain between Curufin’s brow scrunched at that, and the arc of his bow turned down. Again came the nagging thought-- this wasn’t hunting, it wasn’t, couldn’t be-- and the simmering anxiety in his gut flared.

“What need is there for dragging out the death of a deer?” he asked, suspicion a barely checked thing.

Fëanor didn’t pause for a moment at it, but his smile fell in fractions. 

“None,” the elder man allowed, so honestly that Curufin nearly regretted doubting him. “But it is better to practice on something harmless while you can. Failing to cripple a deer now will not be nearly as fatal as missing the mark on a more dangerous opponent later.”

“Practice? Father, what--”

“Knock your arrow again.”

The command was gentle, but Curufin felt the lead of it in the grip Fëanor kept on his shoulder. Only a little haltingly, he obeyed, and let his attention drift to the deer once more. The creature was still grazing, its neck in a practiced, dutiful bow. It hadn’t heard them whisper, or it had and didn’t fear them. In the present circumstances, Curufin didn’t know which possibility would sour his stomach more.

This wasn’t hunting. It couldn’t be.

“When facing an enemy,” Fëanor continued, voice sickeningly tender at Curufin’s ear, “you are right: it is often best to deal the first available fatal blow. In defense of your life, no instinct will serve you better.” Strong hands found the backs of Curufin’s biceps, lifted them to position, laid hard against them even after Curufin had settled comfortably into his stance. “But sometimes, there are other avenues worth exploring.”

Curufin thumbed the arrow’s fletching. He didn’t want to ask what his father meant. He wanted to watch the deer trail its snout through the leaves a while longer, enjoy the way sun dappled its fur like fawn spots would have once, then go home.

Fëanor’s thumb mimicked the pattern of Curufin’s own, swirled soothingly over the backs of his son’s arms. The sensation was deadened through layers of fabric, too warm now for the fullness of noon. 

“There’s something to be said,” his father continued, “about your enemy being unable to run. And many things of use _they_ might say if you use that leverage properly.”

“No.”

The gentle grip on Curufin’s arms tightened, his father’s nails cutting half-moons. “Come again?”

“No!” 

The hiss was sharp, and at it the deer’s ear finally twitched. Fëanor dug his nails in harder, threatening to bruise the tender skin, and at the warning Curufin pressed on more quietly. 

“I will shoot to kill or not at all.” Curufin’s throat was a vice, too tight for his voice to slide comfortably through. Each word pried it open, left him aching. He wished he didn’t have to speak at all. He wish his father would back away. “I won’t hurt the poor creature when there’s no point to it.”

“The point,” Fëanor said, his own words just as stiff, “is to ensure your protection. Your family’s protection.”

“From what?” Curufin kept his voice low out of habit, but he no longer cared to keep the bitter incredulity from it. “A doe that might sneak into our garden? A friend of Tyelko’s that knocks too late at our window?”

The grip on his arm slackened, and Curufin stiffened. He expected it to come harder against the back of his neck, or drag him off by the ear as it had when he was younger and spoke so wildly to his father. But it didn’t. Fëanor’s nails ghosted the sore pinpoints they’d left on Curufin’s flesh, and behind him, the elder man sighed.

“You know little of the world, my son, and understand even less.” 

Fëanor dropped his hands, and as if nothing but his father’s will had been holding them up, so did Curufin’s arms. The arrow was knocked still, but its tip brushed the grass, broke the blades apart in a parody of the still-grazing deer’s gentle snout. 

“Look at me.”

Curufin didn’t want to, but his father’s voice had lost its cutting edge. It was dull now, and tired, and Curufin’s heart ached at the sound of it; he kept his body firm and planted forward, but turned his gaze to Fëanor.

His father’s face had lost its humor. Fëanor’s mouth was a hard line, dark eyes weary and coal. Curufin’s gut tightened with guilt at the sight, but he bit back the apology that threatened to come savagely. He would let the other man speak first.

Fëanor, as always, did not keep him waiting long.

“There will come a day,” he whispered, voice stormy, “when the things and people you care for are threatened. There are some who--” Fëanor’s smooth brow broke, scrunching mountainous. He looked at Curufin for a moment as if he were seeing someone else; a shadow he couldn’t catch, a vengeful smoke that slipped between his fingers. “--people that would take from us. From you and your brothers. They would strip us of everything if we allowed it.”

Curufin didn’t know who his father meant by _they_. Who would harm them, and why? What had-- the thought was treacherous, but he couldn’t stop it-- Fëanor done?

He opened his mouth to question, but his father’s hand lifted, called for silence before the words could come.

“I do not expect you to always agree with me,” Fëanor continued, “or understand why I ask something of you. But I am your father, and you must trust me enough to do as I say. If you do not--” the man swallowed, the dryness of it a tangible thing. “--if you cannot follow me in something as small as this, then there is nowhere I can hope to lead you.”

The words were quiet, and still they broke in Curufin’s ears like stormy surf. This wasn’t hunting. This wasn’t his father. The woods around them was a nest of arms, and between them and Fëanor’s frightful words he felt trapped. 

“Father--” His tongue ached to beg Fëanor to take the words back, to stop this, to come home and pretend this day never happened. But the man’s eyes were hard peach pits, and Curufin’s lungs threatened to turn stony under them. “--please.”

“Give me your answer.”

At the edges of Curufin’s vision, the deer lifted its head, shook a pesky bug from its ears, and went back to feeding. It was a sweet, beautiful animal. He didn’t want it to suffer. Didn’t want Fëanor and himself to be the cause of its suffering. But his father was watching him now like a wild thing, eyes flicking almost distrustfully between Curufin’s face and the downturned bow in his hands. He couldn’t-- he had to now. There was never a clean means of refusing Fëanor; not when his heart was bent so furiously on something that his vision narrowed to treacherous tunnels.

Eyes burning, Curufin returned his attention to the deer. It had turned somewhat while he and his father had been talking, and the shot to its hind was clear now. They wouldn’t have to move for it, after all. He took a moment to assess the possible outcomes of the shot, then pulled two more arrows from his quiver. It was unlikely the first shot would totally disable it; if they truly didn’t want it to run, several quick fire shots would be needed. 

Palming the other arrows, he lifted his bow again, aiming for the spot Fëanor had instructed. A slight tremble started up in his shoulders, and like they did when Curufin was young, his father’s hands came to rest there soothingly.

“You are a good son,” the man said, palms like brands on his back.

Curufin forced his breathing to steady, and hoped that in the coming years he would forget this.


End file.
